


Soulmates

by A_fighter_like_Eowyn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Boys In Love, Childhood, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Sweethearts, Comfort/Angst, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Family Fluff, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Male Friendship, Non-Graphic Smut, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Friendship, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, True Love, Wedding Fluff, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27115991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_fighter_like_Eowyn/pseuds/A_fighter_like_Eowyn
Summary: Jaskier was five. The boy who stood in front of him was eight, and considerably taller. Jaskier lifted his big blue eyes up to the mesmerizing amber-gold ones that stared down at him with open affability, a good measure of cautious hope and something that Jaskier thought was very akin to fondness, though they had only just met.Hand in hand, they grew up. Each shared everything he had with the other - from meals and books and toys to parents and siblings and families and homes. Each gave the other his heart, and eventually, each shared the other's bed.Until, one day, one soulmate is torn from the other's side, and sent off to fight a war. Little does he suspect what a pyrrhic victory it is going to be.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Triss Merigold, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67





	Soulmates

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer & request: please note that although the premise for this story is a historically accurate one, I did not write this fic with any intention to rile up anyone nor incite any vicious political debate. Please do not leave any politically charged comment in your review.

Year 1971. 

Jaskier sits restless in a plush reclining seat on board the flight that took off from Paris Charles de Gaulle a few hours back, and is now speeding towards Mumbai's Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport. The total duration of the flight is about nine hours, but Jaskier is not sure he will be able to survive that long, or if he is simply going to suffer an ischemic stroke - judging by the acutely panicked, distressed state of mind he is in, it's only normal for his blood pressure to skyrocket.

_No time to lose! No time! No time!_

Jaskier tries his best to still the tremor in his fingers as he grabs the back of the seat directly in front of him in a white-knuckled grip. He can tell that his co-passengers nearby are throwing him worried looks, but his frenetic, feverish mind is unable to focus on anything. 

_Anything except one name. One call. A desperate need. A crushing pain. An all-encompassing, overwhelming urge that claws away at his heart ... to ... to ..._

"Sir? Are you okay? Sir?"

Someone is shaking him by his shoulder, and an urgent, anxious voice is calling out to him, but Jaskier is unable to lift his face from where it is buried in the upholstered back of the seat in front of him. He knows he is crying, and his face is tear-streaked and swollen and puffy, and his eyes bloodshot, and he knows that the gasping, rattling breaths tearing through his lungs are alarming everyone around him. But he cannot bring himself to care. Cannot bring himself to allay his co-passengers' quite-warranted fear for his well-being. 

_Because nothing matters anymore. Nothing at all. Everything is falling apart, disintegrating into a million shards and shrapnel that are digging into his heart, plunging deep into his soul, making him hemorrhage irreparably. A slow, painful death it is ..._

***********************************************************************************************

"Hi!"

The voice was soft, the tone shy and hesitant. The small smile that tugged at the corner of those lovely pale-rose lips was also shy and sweet, and it made something deep inside Jaskier's chest ache.

Jaskier was five. The boy who stood in front of him was eight, and considerably taller. Jaskier lifted his big blue eyes up to the mesmerizing amber-gold ones that stared down at him with open affability, a good measure of cautious hope and something that Jaskier thought was very akin to fondness, though they had only just met. 

It all tugged at Jaskier's little heart in a very good, very unprecedented sort of way. He felt a strange fascination - almost an irresistible pull - towards the curiously-white-haired boy. There was something so incredibly adorable in the way Geralt's untidy, unkempt (and evidently unwashed) hair was smudged with splotches of ink and streaks of pastel colour and stuck out at every odd angle imaginable. Something in the way he sported that wrinkled ink-spattered cotton shirt and those threadbare, baggy trousers with their fraying hems rolled up to reveal dirty, mud-smeared ankles. Something in the way Geralt's uncanny gold-flecked amber orbs lit up with a mischievous gleam the moment they beheld Jaskier.

Vesemir Chacha was a newly appointed Captain of the Indian Army at the time, and Jaskier's father, Dr. Sunil Pankratz, a revered young army doctor. The two were practically inseparable friends, and next-door neighbours besides.

It, therefore, came as no surprise to any of the adults in Jaskier's family that Chacha brought Geralt to Dr. Pankratz's home straight from the orphanage. 

Standing pressed to the slightly ajar door leading to the living room, Jaskier heard Chacha elaborate to Baba how he had only just finished signing all the adoption-related documents and papers, and that there were two other boys - Lambert, twelve, and Eskel, nine, who were waiting for him to go pick them up. But for some reason, Chacha had been somewhat extra worried for Geralt, and had hastened to bring him home first. 

When Ma took him by the hand and ushered him into the living room, Jaskier stood with his head bowed and his eyes downcast, unsure of whether he should or should not approach the lanky boy who sat cross-legged on the fine hand-knotted Ziegler-style rug from Agra that covered the living room floor.

Chacha tried to lure Jaskier closer, as usual, with offerings of an entire tiffin-box-full of his favourite sandesh made of milk and khoya and coconut and jaggery. But Jaskier still stood resolutely clinging to his Baba's side like a limpet, sticking his thumb in his mouth and eyeing the strange boy in front of him through his lashes.

In the end, it was Geralt who approached Jaskier.

"My ... my new Baba ... he gave this to me", Geralt said quietly, extending his dirty, soot-blackened palm and revealing a big Cadbury's Dairy Milk chocolate bar in its typical gold-and-purple glossy wrapping, "This ... this ..."

Jaskier frowned. _The boy did not know what chocolates were?_

"Chocolate", he offered helpfully, his voice small.

"Choc-chocolate", Geralt repeated after him, stumbling a bit over the syllables, "I have never had this before. He says it's sweet, and he thinks I'll enjoy it. Share?"

Jaskier smiled shyly. "No no, it's yours. Chacha gave it to you."

"But I _want_ to share it with you."

Jaskier's wide eyes stared up at Geralt's inviting smile for a few seconds. Then, with a shrill-voiced "Just a moment, please!", he rushed to the kitchen, where he had a few more sugary candies - Mango Bites and Coffy Bites and some tangy-and-spicy Hajmolas - stacked away in a shelf on the refrigerator door.

A few minutes later, the two boys found themselves stepping out the back door of the house, their little hands full to the brim with an assortment of dainties and munchies. For a while, they sat on the steps leading down to the short pebbled garden-pathway outside, their feet dangling and their toes playfully brushing against one another, and stuffed their mouths with sweets. Geralt insisted on Jaskier eating more than half of his chocolate bar, whereas Jaskier took it upon himself to ensure that Geralt was able to make up for eight years' worth of deplorable lack of chocolate and candy supplies within the span of a few hours that very afternoon.

Once all the sweets were blessedly gobbled up and only the scrunched up wrappers remained - those and the messy smudges of chocolate and yellow-tinged sugar syrup from the Mango Bites all over the two children's mouths and chins and cheeks - Geralt stood up, and extended his now-rather-sticky hand towards Jaskier.

"Run with me? In the field?", he gestured towards the lush, sprawling field that lay right in front of them, the velvet-soft blades of grass a dazzling emerald-green and the millions of droplets that clung to them after the heavy morning showers sparkling like diamonds. 

Jaskier nodded eagerly. He absolutely loved the massive puddles and potholes that formed in the soft soil of the fields during the monsoons, and he loved to wade through the rainwater that collected in them, and his Ma tried her best to dissuade him from doing precisely that.

Hand in hand, the boys walked out into the rainswept field that looked even more beautiful, mysterious and enticing beneath overcast, pearl-white afternoon skies. Their heels sank in the cold, ankle-deep water. Their ears tingled from the near-constant chorus of merrily croaking frogs and toads, the rhythmic chitters and buzzes of grasshoppers and dragonflies and crickets, and the occasional warbling and chirping of drongos and bulbuls and oriental magpie-robins hidden amidst the rushes and reeds. Their breaths mingled as they inhaled deeply in the air redolent of the monsoons, filled with the aroma of wet earth and rain-soaked foliage. 

Hand in hand, they ran pell-mell through the field, splashing through the puddles, tripping over their own feet and falling over each other, giggling manically, chasing butterflies and grasshoppers, hunting through the dense underbrush for the well-concealed bullfrogs and pond-frogs and floating-frogs, throwing their heads back to receive the cool touch of the plummeting raindrops on their upturned faces.

In the end, Jaskier's Ma and Baba had to yell at them from the edge of the field before the two wild children could be persuaded to come home. And they came home muddied and bruised and dripping from head to toe, knowing that they were in for some pretty stern admonitions.

But no matter what, they never let go of each other's hand.

*****************************************************************

The next nine years of Jaskier's life flew by, hand in hand with Geralt.

The three parents used to joke that Jaskier and Geralt were joined at the hip, and it was not much of an exaggeration. And strangely, whereas Lambert and Eskel were both brothers to Jaskier, Geralt never felt like a brother to him. Never felt like a sibling. And every year for the first few years, despite all the elders of their happy little (or not so little) coalesced family insisting, both Jaskier and Geralt stubbornly refused to tie rakhis around each other's wrists during Raksha Bandhan, although each of them happily obliged when it came to tying rakhis around Lambert's and Eskel's and Jaskier's little sister Essie's wrists.

_Always a soulmate. Geralt felt forever like a soulmate to him. There was no other name that Jaskier could attribute to exactly what Geralt was to him._

Jaskier forgot to do his homework? Was he about to be chastised by a teacher? Well, not if Geralt could help it. He would cook up some pretext, try to placate the teacher, shield Jaskier the best he could from the impending reprimands. 

Geralt got caught up in a scuffle with a bunch of bullying seniors at school? Was there even the slightest possibility of him getting roughened up by the extremely-intimidating-looking, red-faced, furious ruffians? Well, they would have to go through Jaskier first! He would stand fuming in front of Geralt, firmly keeping his soulmate and best friend _behind_ him, hands on his hips and arms akimbo, and glare up at the towering brutes until he browbeat them into submission.

Jaskier lost his pencil-box? _Again?_ Or perhaps he forgot his water-bottle in the school-bus? Did he accidentally drop and shatter the earthen vase he was supposed to paint as part of his next assignment for art class? Was Geralt's Indu Chachi (Jaskier's Ma) or Sunil Chacha (Jaskier's Baba) about to scold his Jasky? Geralt would stick to Jaskier like a limpet all evening long, trying his best to diffuse the tension, shouldering all the blame _("No no Chachi! It was my fault! I dropped the vase! Please, Chachi - please don't berate him!")_ , keeping one arm reassuringly around Jaskier's shoulder, anchoring him, bolstering him.

Was Jaskier anxious about an upcoming examination or weekly class-test? Geralt would be there, comforting him, holding him close, helping him study. Was Geralt feeling stressed about their school-team's soccer match against a bunch of particularly vicious opponents? Jaskier would be there to soothe his nerves, hold his hand, coax him into having a proper breakfast and one full glass of steaming milk before Geralt could make his way to the school's playgrounds. And if Geralt got injured in the soccer match, Jaskier would be the first to reach him, and scoop him up in a fierce hug. And when they came home, Geralt would allow no one but Jaskier to tend to his wounds, cleaning them and flushing out the grit and dirt and mud, rubbing salves on them, blowing cool air on them (the sight of Jaskier's plump lips puckered adorably as he blew on the cuts and gashes never failed to bring a smile to Geralt's lips no matter how much pain he was in), tying fresh bandages around them.

Countless nights spent huddled together underneath the same blanket, pouring over fat volumes on epic fantasies and science fictions and historical tales of adventure and romance. Countless days spent sitting side by side on the sun-dappled porch, hunched over their respective homework, their hands occasionally sneaking morsels into their mouths from the shared platter of home-made parathas and aloo sabzi. Countless evenings spent being meticulously tutored by the patient and pampering Indu Chachi in mathematics and physics and chemistry. Countless late-night lessons on English and Bengali and history and civics under the combined tutelage of the two fathers, followed by the two groggy, exhausted boys dropping asleep on their shared bed, each tucked securely in the confines of the other's arms - Jaskier burrowing into Geralt's chest and curling up in a tight ball, and Geralt pulling the smaller boy impossibly closer to himself and burying his nose in Jaskier's chestnut-brown curls.

That one time that Jaskier's bicycle skidded on the slippery asphalt after the rains and he hit his head on the pavement? Geralt rushed to his side, lifted Jaskier's head onto his lap, took off the brand new white shirt that Vesemir had gifted him on the occasion of Durga Puja, and began dabbing away at the fast-swelling bruise on Jaskier's temple, stemming the blood seeping out of the deep gash there. Then he lifted Jaskier up in his arms (despite weak protests from the younger and far flimsier child) and carried him all the way back home. And that night, he cradled Jaskier in his arms, and sang him a lullaby, and pressed kisses to the bandaged lump on his temple until Jaskier felt the throbbing pain in his head ebb away, and he was lulled into a restful sleep.

And that one time, during Diwali, that Geralt's palm and fingers got burned by the rogue sparkler firework that he had been demonstrating how to hold to Jaskier? Jaskier ran indoors, and hurtled back with a tub of toothpaste. He sat Geralt down, and with his gentle fingers, smeared huge dollops of the bluish-white toothpaste onto the burned skin. And then he threw his arms around Geralt, and Geralt buried his face in Jaskier's shoulder and cried a bit, though whether that was from the stinging pain in his scorched, blistered skin or the joy of being taken care of by his Jasky, he really could not tell.

Neither Geralt nor Jaskier showed much proficiency in culinary skills in their childhood (though admittedly they both grew up to be rather accomplished amateur chefs and now make it a point to cook for their combined family every single day that they are home), but when it came to their birthdays - well, suffices to say that Jaskier was _always_ the mastermind behind the diligent garnishing of Geralt's birthday-cake, and Geralt was _always_ the chief architect behind all the intricate embellishments on Jaskier's birthday-cake. Not to mention that the first bite off Geralt's birthday-cake _always_ went to Jaskier, and _no one_ but Geralt was allowed to have the first piece carved out of Jaskier's birthday-cake.

Diwalis were spent lighting diyas together, on the balconies and porches and window-sills of both their houses, and together, the two of them created rangolis with gulal and rose petals and orange-and-yellow marigolds. Durga Pujas were spent wearing new kurtas and churidars that more often than not looked identical. Holis were spent hurling balls of coloured water at everyone else in the family while protecting each other's backs, and then shyly smearing gulal on each other's faces, pressing soft kisses to each other's noses (that usually tickled and made the two of them double over in fits of giggles), and then cuddling each other.

*****************************************************************

When Geralt graduated from high school and left Mumbai to begin his three-year long rigorous military training programme at the National Defence Academy at Khadakwasla in Poona, Jaskier felt his world go dark.

The teenager of sixteen took to his chambers and locked himself in for nearly half a day, sobbing helplessly into his pillows. Ma, Baba, Vesemir Chacha, Eskel, Lambert Bhaiya, Essie - everyone called his name, everyone implored him to come out and have some food, but Jaskier just could not. He could not make his mind and body obey. They were on strike, and they just wouldn't budge - not a single morsel nor the tiniest sip of water would go past his parched, chapped lips and into his hunger-gnawed tummy when his soulmate had just left him.

It was not until after Geralt got off the bus from Mumbai to Khadakwasla, and ignoring his sore limbs and aching muscles at the end of an eleven-hour long, extremely bumpy bus ride through traffic-congested city streets and undulating country roads, sought out a payphone nearby and called right away, that Jaskier relented. It was not until Geralt's rumbling baritone whispered soothing words into Jaskier's ear as the distraught, weeping teenager clutched the receiver in shaking hands, coaxing him into giving up his obstinate endeavour of starving himself until and unless Geralt came home, that Jaskier could be persuaded to eat and drink and fall into a fitful sleep. 

It was expensive in those days to make phone-calls from one city in India to another, but what little pocket-money Geralt managed to save from his meagre stipend, he used it to call Jaskier. Once a week, sometimes twice a week. Jaskier would wait all week long like a starved, ravenous child waiting for a succulent meal, until the weekend arrived, because weekends were when Geralt was the likeliest to call. And more often than not, no one else in their coalesced family got more than a few seconds to say hello to Geralt, because the moment anyone picked up the receiver, Geralt would demand for Jaskier to be put on the line.

Jaskier's last two years of high school were spent pining for Geralt, except when Geralt came home for the summer and winter vacations and during the festive holidays on the occasion of Diwali and Dussehra. And whenever he was home, there was hardly a moment that the strapping college-goer spent away from his school-going soulmate. Jaskier would practically take up temporary residence in Geralt's room, studying at Geralt's desk, cuddling with Geralt in Geralt's balcony, lounging on Geralt's sofa with his head nestled in Geralt's lap, sleeping on Geralt's bed. And most of the time draped in Geralt's nightshirts and pajamas.

****************************************************************

By the time Jaskier commenced the second year of his MBBS degree programme at the Grant Medical College in Mumbai, Geralt graduated from the NDA and had to leave for the Rashtriya Indian Military College in Dehradun.

Meetings and phone-calls became less frequent thanks to the expenses involved and the distance between Mumbai and Dehradun. Geralt could come home only for the summer and winter vacations, and despite his best efforts, had to give up on the recklessly hectic journeys from Dehradun to Mumbai during the much shorter holidays of Diwali, Dussehra and other festivals celebrated nationwide. Jaskier barely had time to breathe in the midst of his medical training. The two young men found themselves sinking deeper and deeper underneath a mountain of duties and tasks, overwhelmed by a deluge of studies and research and combat trainings and field trips. They found it harder and harder to come home, spend time with their loved ones, and spend time talking to each other, confiding to each other, supporting and heartening each other over phone-calls and lovingly handwritten letters.

_But in their hearts, they missed each other more than they could ever express in words. It was hell, and they knew they would move mountains to make their agonizingly slow, ponderous way through this hellhole and all the way to each other, no matter what._

***********************************************************************

When Geralt got formally inducted into the Indian Army as a brilliant and industrious young member of the Intelligence Corps, and was ordered to take up his post in a regiment on the north-western frontiers of the country, Jaskier felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest.

The night before he was supposed to depart, Geralt came home from his evening run only to discover Jaskier curled into a fetal position in his bed, the sheets rumpled underneath him, his eyes rimmed red and his face puffy, and small sniffles escaping him despite his best attempts to stifle them.

Wordlessly, Geralt shrugged off his sweatshirt and tracksuits, then donning his comfiest, most loose-fitting pajamas and choosing to forego a shirt, he padded over to the bed, and crawling into it, scooped up Jaskier in his arms.

Jaskier burst into tears.

Geralt said nothing, just hugged Jaskier tighter, threading his calloused fingers through the already-tousled brown curls and rubbing soothing circles on Jaskier's arms and back, while the younger man pressed his face into the crook of Geralt's neck and sobbed miserably, his tears soon running down Geralt's chest in little rivulets and soaking through his skin. 

Eventually, Jaskier hiccupped himself into a semblance of calm. He looked up at Geralt's incredibly soft, pained expression and those haunted amber-gold eyes wide with grief and remorse and wistful longing, and pouted.

"Do you _have_ to go?"

"This is what I trained for, Jasky, my love."

"Yes but ... why _you_? Why _my_ soulmate? What have _I_ done to deserve this punishment?"

Geralt cupped Jaskier's tear-streaked face in his palms, and brushed away some of the still-dripping teardrops with the tips of his thumbs. Then, leaning forward, he pressed a soft kiss to the younger man's nose, making Jaskier scrunch up his face and succeeding in eliciting the ghost of a smile from him. 

"Protecting our country - protecting _you_ , Jasky - it's not a punishment, love. It's an honour!"

"For _you_ , maybe. To me it sure feels like the cruelest, most ruthless punishment ever", Jaskier's voice came out hoarse, earnest and pleading, "What if something happens to you, Geralt? What if ... Geralt, I'll be devastated ... I swear, I can't live without you ... I'll ... I'll die--"

Geralt pressed his palm firmly on Jaskier's lips, cutting off his increasingly panicked babble.

"Don't you dare", the older man's voice came out stern, almost harsh, laced with anger and more than a hint of fear, "You know you will never find forgiveness in me if you even _think_ of letting your mind stray in that direction, Julian Alfred Pankratz."

"But Geralt, please I ... I can't ... not without you ..."

"You _will_ live, no matter what. No matter what happens to me, don't you dare think of anything but a long and happy life ahead of you, Julian."

It is not often that Geralt calls Jaskier by his formal first name. That name only ever gets uttered by Geralt when Jaskier is being subjected to the severest of reprimands by his soulmate. 

Jaskier's lips wobbled, but he didn't say anything else. His heart was breaking, and he knew that no matter how much he beseeched, Geralt would leave come morning. And Jaskier would be left behind, alone and terrified and utterly defeated. 

But what Geralt did next did serve to distract Jaskier from his maudlin, mournful thoughts.

Lifting Jaskier's downcast face with a knuckle underneath his chin, Geralt leaned forward - slowly, inch by inch - his eyes never once leaving Jaskier's wide, tearful, cornflower-blue orbs, until softly, almost teasingly, he brushed his lips against Jaskier's plump pomegranate-pink ones. Jaskier gasped, but Geralt's firm hold on the back of his neck prevented him from pulling away. Instead, Geralt just deepened the kiss, his insistent, dominating lips moving in tandem with Jaskier's far softer and far more pliant ones, his teeth gently nipping on Jaskier's lower lip, making the younger man moan and obediently open his mouth for Geralt's tongue to dart in and explore. 

_Their first kiss ever. Well, their very first impassioned, romantic kiss, anyway._

The two men felt themselves reeling from the heady concoction of lust and longing that surged through their frames, that they could taste on each other's tongues. Their hearts raced, beating like the flapping wings of a pair of frantic hummingbirds inside their rib-cages, and their mingled breaths grew more and more rapid and erratic, until the two were forced to part for drawing much needed air into their screaming lungs.

Jaskier leaned heavily against Geralt, disoriented and more than a little dazed from their first kiss ever. 

"Jasky?", Geralt rasped, and his husky baritone sent tendrils of thrill and yearning down Jaskier's spine.

"Mmm?"

"I ...", Geralt swallowed thickly, and Jaskier looked up into those hooded amber-gold eyes with their pupils blown wide with love and lust, "I don't know when we shall see each other next, sweetheart. I ... I was wondering if ... if ..."

"Yes."

Jaskier felt Geralt's body literally thrum with anticipation at that simple, short answer full of utter, unwavering conviction.

"Are you sure, Jasky?"

"I'm sure, Geralt. I have been yours since the day we met. And if I am not mistaken, you've been mine. Let's seal this bond once and for all ... make me yours in the most intimate way possible, my warrior."

Geralt shivered at those words, and leaning forward, pressed his forehead to Jaskier's, his heavy, hot breaths ghosting over Jaskier's lips and throat, scorching his skin there in the best way possible.

"And then, afterward, you will make me yours?"

"Yes. If that is what you wish for, dear heart."

They were still rather young, and they had never been sexually active before. They had never touched anyone else in an intimate manner. They both knew just the basics, and not much else. Geralt got off the bed and quietly closed the door, locking it from the inside and lifting the latch up for good measure. Jaskier drew the curtains, plunging the room in shadow. With clumsy hands, they undressed each other down to their smallclothes, each peppering the other's flushed, heated skin with hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses. Each trailed his lips down the column of the other's willingly exposed throat, nuzzling the jawline and the sensitive patches of skin behind the ears, sucking and nipping and kissing and marking bruises into the skin of the neck and shoulders and clavicles. Each let his tongue flick out and lave over the other's soft nipples, drawing out barely muffled moans, and suckled away until the nipples were erect and over-sensitized. Their hands roamed hungrily all over one another, making sure to trace every inch of exposed skin, and while Geralt reveled in running his fingers through the dense thicket of hair on Jaskier's chest, tugging softly and making the younger man whimper, Jaskier's fingers curled around the lustrous white tresses cascading down and beautifully framing Geralt's face, luxuriating in their supple, velvety weight.

When Jaskier's hands finally summoned the courage to wander further south, and came to rest lightly around the bulge straining to break free underneath Geralt's smallclothes, the older man whimpered, his eyes slipping closed as he panted, leaning heavily with his head resting on his soulmate's shoulder, his hands gripping Jaskier's hips possessively. 

"Jasky ..."

"Honey?"

"Please ... please ... I can't ... can't wait ...". And Jaskier needed no more nudging.

They pulled down each other's loincloths almost simultaneously, letting them pool around their feet. And their stark naked bodies melded perfectly with each other as they hugged, their lips once again moulded around one another in a heated, passionate kiss. Together, they stumbled into the already rumpled bed, and Jaskier ended up pinned underneath Geralt, feeling like his heart would explode from the tsunami of love he felt for the older man who gazed down at him with an almost primal look of longing in his lust-darkened eyes. 

Panting heavily, Geralt lowered his mouth to ravage Jaskier further, until the younger man was a trembling, moaning, writhing, delectably flushed mess under his weight. Reaching out, he grabbed hold of the moisturizing lotion he usually kept on his bedside table. 

"Jaskier?"

Jaskier frowned up at the hesitant, somewhat concerned note in his soulmate's voice.

"Sweetheart?"

"I don't ... I mean ... I just ... basically know in a theoretical sense what to do from here onward. And I'm ... I'm worried ... what if I end up hurting you, baby?"

Jaskier couldn't help the endearing smile that lit up his features at that moment, and he reached up to cradle Geralt's face in his hands.

"You won't. You can never hurt me, beloved. I trust you completely. And if, accidentally, you do cause me pain, I shall let you know, Geralt."

It was the solemn promise in Jaskier's eyes that ultimately helped ease the tension from Geralt's shoulders and erased the worried crease from his brow. And in the end, Jaskier proved to be right -- Geralt did just fine. Better than fine -- the impossible tenderness with which he slipped his lotion-slicked fingers inside Jaskier, one by one, gradually and with soft murmurs of sweet encouragement into his quivering, whimpering soulmate's ears, left Jaskier crying tears of overwhelming love and joy into Geralt's shoulders.

When Jaskier just could not endure that deliberately drawn-out, mind-numbing torture of Geralt's love on his senses any longer, and he moaned and whined and begged his sweetheart for sweet relief, Geralt, with a final reassuring kiss pressed to Jaskier's sweat-drenched forehead, entered him. And Jaskier's body arched off the bed as his mouth fell open in a silent moan and his eyes slipped closed in an onslaught of unprecedented, unimaginable pleasure. Inch by inch Geralt sank into him, pushing deeper and deeper into him with almost unbearable gentleness and love, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear and running soothing fingers up and down his arms and his sides. And when finally he sat fully sheathed inside Jaskier, filling him to the core and making him feel indescribably whole and loved and cherished and worshipped in the best, most blissful way imaginable, Jaskier felt -- no, he knew, deep in his bones -- that from that day onward, they were well and truly bonded. For life. Neither would truly be able to survive without the other.

******************************************************************

It had been five years since the evening of their very first lovemaking.

Five years that sped by in a blur of activities, from Geralt shining like an extraordinarily bright young star and rising through the myriad ranks in the army in leaps and bounds, to Jaskier winning widespread acclaim as one of the most promising young doctors in Mumbai. Five years in which Geralt had undertaken a sequence of increasingly challenging and risky assignments, and Jaskier, encouraged by Geralt and their combined family and his teachers, had resolved to pursue a specialization in gynecologic oncology. Five years in which Geralt's daring attitude had led to him inching closer and closer to enemy encampments and underground enemy establishments on Indian soil and covert enemy-state-sponsored violent, subversive operations that threatened to disrupt peace in the borderlands of the country. Five years in which Jaskier's tireless work (and all the French he managed to learn in school) had rewarded him with a prestigious scholarship to go pursue a year-long research cum internship programme in his cherished discipline in Marseille.

Five years in which Geralt had come home whenever he had found a sliver of respite from his work, or when his superiors had grudgingly granted him leave (he was valuable on the field, and they were reluctant to let him go), and once home, had spent nearly every waking (and every sleeping) moment in Jaskier's arms. And prior to every single one of Geralt's visits (at least those that he could plan beforehand), Jaskier had stayed up night after night pouring over hefty tomes on medical sciences, furiously typed up his research articles and essays, worked extra shifts at the hospital and spent additional hours in the lab, all so that he could find a little more time to spend with Geralt when he arrived.

Five years in which Geralt and Jaskier had only grown closer. They had opened up even more to each other, making honest confessions about how helplessly in love each was with the other, how irrevocably each belonged to the other for life. They had made love a few more times, though given the cultural background they both hailed from, it was no surprise that the soft, sweet shyness had not fully dissipated from their tender acts of lovemaking. Each still explored the other with shy, hesitant looks on his face, until the other helped ease all the doubts and misgivings with persistent kisses and soothing reassurances.

"I don't want to go", Jaskier pouted, sounding puerile and petulant even to his own ears, as he spoke into the receiver.

"Jaskier ...", came the warning growl from the other end, clearly audible above the metallic clicks and whirs emitted by a plethora of intelligence equipment in the background.

"What? I think I'll learn things just fine even if I stay here", countered Jaskier.

"We both know that is _not_ why you are dithering and dawdling in your decision to go abroad, Jaskier", Geralt chided, "I have no problem with you believing you can learn all you need to while staying right here and never once leaving India. What I _do_ mind is you refusing to go simply because you will be separated from me for a mere three hundred and sixty five days, you spoiled brat!"

Jaskier glared into the receiver, then added a whining "Please, beloved ..." for good measure, but Geralt only chuckled fondly on the other end. 

"Now, give me a quick virtual kiss, because I have to go. And I shall see you in two weeks' time, yes? You better get on with all the visa issuance procedures, Jaskier Pankratz, or you will have me to answer to once I get home. Okay?"

"Okay, fiiiiine."

"I love you, my boo. And I can't wait to see you and hold you. Alright?"

"I love you too, baby boo. Oh and do you know what you are going to wear for Eskel and Triss Bhabhi's --"

But the line had already gone dead.

******************************************************************

Turned out that Geralt did know what he wanted to wear for Eskel's and Triss' wedding. 

When Jaskier arrived at the wedding venue, decked up in a brocaded silk sherwani in warm tones of amber and orange and embroidered with gold threads, he had to admit that he was feeling rather cranky after having been forced to go one whole day without seeing Geralt, who made pretexts about being rather busy helping with the preparations. But then his eyes glimpsed a bobbing head of milk-white hair amidst the crowd of people gathered around the bride and the groom, and he wove and elbowed his way through the swarm of invitees with many a muttered "sorry" and "excuse me", until he stood right in front of the love of his life and ...

_... his jaws dropped._

Geralt stood casually to one side of Eskel, leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of him, looking utterly resplendent in a simple yet elegant, vibrant-cornflower-blue kurta, richly adorned with intricate chikan patterns of a deep navy-blue shade. 

_The muslin kurta was exactly the shade of Jaskier's irises. Just as Jaskier's own sherwani had been carefully chosen to match Geralt's amber-gold orbs._

Not to mention how the nearly translucent fabric accentuated the well-worked muscles of that sculpted chest and those delectably broad shoulders and those brawny arms that boasted of raw strength. Not to mention how the luxurious white tresses cascaded down on either side of that handsome face, combed to perfection until they shone like silver-white gossamer strands under the decorative twinkling lights of the wedding mandap. Not to mention how staggeringly handsome the man looked, the chiseled jawline and the proud nose and the noble forehead thrown into stark relief by the same lights that made his irises glimmer like molten pools of gold. Not to mention how stunningly alluring that crooked smile was that tugged at the corners of his lips the moment his eyes fell on Jaskier. 

Jaskier felt his knees go weak. And he likely wobbled a bit, because Geralt's disarming smile changed to a fleeting frown of concern until the man walked up to Jaskier and simply - without fuss, without hesitation, without sparing a single glance at the several pairs of onlooking eyes - put an arm around his waist and pulled him close, right into the confines of his chest.

Jaskier swooned. And Geralt let out a soft chuckle that rumbled through his chest, the hum of it vibrating right underneath Jaskier's ear where it was pressed to Geralt's heart. And before either of them could formulate any verbal greeting for one another, Jaskier heard Shani, his (extremely impish and unapologetically brazen) cousin, let out a quiet whistle and remark to the room at large:

"These two look totally ravishing together, don't they?"

*********************************************************************

Two days after the wedding, as they all sat clustered around the dinner table, enjoying a lavish feast thrown by their combined families in honour of the newly welcomed bride (and Jaskier's doting Triss Bhabhi), Vesemir and Sunil (after exchanging knowing smirks with each other) announced to the room that Geralt and Jaskier were to be betrothed to each other. 

The two men, seated across from each other, promptly blushed a deep shade of magenta and ducked their heads, shy smiles threatening to widen into beaming ones of pure, unadulterated joy. The family erupted in laughter, and all the elders hugged the two flushed lovers and planted kisses on top of their heads, blessing them and wishing them all the happiness in the world.

A day later, in a small, private ceremony organized at Vesemir's home, Geralt and Jaskier became engaged to each other. A shyly smiling Geralt slipped onto Jaskier's left ring-finger a delicate band of gold etched with the words "My sun", and a heartbeat later, a furiously blushing Jaskier wiggled onto Geralt's proffered left ring-finger an equally beautiful gold ring with the words "My world" inscribed on it. The elders blessed them with sprinklings of husked rice and trefoil, and the siblings and cousins drew them into tight hugs, and teased them and ribbed them and started laying out elaborate plans for the wedding that was to take place once Jaskier returned to India after his year-long tryst with France.

That night, they lost count of the number of times they made love, their kiss-swollen lips uttering earnest, impassioned "My husband"-s to each other, again and again and again in helplessly moaned whispers, as their bodies writhed and flailed in the throes of sweet pain and pleasure, until they lay panting and spent (in the best way possible) on the rumpled, sweat-soaked sheets. Their naked forms curled around each other as if they were two halves of one whole, their chests rose and fell in unison, their arms encircled each other and held each other as close as possible without fusing into a single body. And Jaskier sighed contentedly into Geralt's chest while Geralt breathed deeply in Jaskier's scent and buried his face in Jaskier's hair, and like that, together, they drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, a forlorn, disconsolate Geralt packed up his suitcase and rucksack, bade a wretchedly sobbing Jaskier a tearful goodbye, and boarded the train back to his battalion stationed in Punjab.

And a month later, Jaskier bade his Ma and Baba and Vesemir Chacha goodbye, squeezed his Lambert Bhaiya and Eskel and Triss Bhabhi and Essie in bear-hugs, and boarded Air India's Boeing-747 to Paris.

*******************************************************************

The war broke out in November 1971.

When Vesemir informed Jaskier (during one of his rare and exorbitantly priced international phone calls to his future son-in-law) that Geralt's was one of the several Punjab Regiment battalions that were being sent out to aid in the war, the young doctor felt his heart constrict in fear and a leaden weight settle on his stomach. He felt the icy talons of fear claw at his benumbed mind and twist his windpipe in a vice-like grip, so that breathing became painfully hard. The hand that held the receiver in a white-knuckled grip shook, and had it not been for Vesemir urging him to calm the heck down, he probably would have fainted right then and there from acute hyperventilation and subsequent lack of air. 

But no matter how Vesemir Chacha (and later on, his own Baba) tried to soothe his nerves, the near-debilitating fear took a firm hold of Jaskier's mind, and he found himself desperately begging his supervisors for a short leave to go home. And while the days trudged on, repeating themselves in a mundane litany of classes and hospital-rounds and clinic-duties, the nights became living hell for the doctor, as he forced himself to stay awake as much as physically possible instead of succumbing to the clutches of terrifying, heart-wrenching nightmares.

_Nightmares. Of Geralt lying in a pool of his own blood. Of Geralt impaled with a bayonet through his heart. Of Geralt frothing blood at the mouth. Of Geralt tossing and turning in agony, as faceless, shadowy figures loomed all around him, intent upon finishing him off._

Each morning, Jaskier started awake from a fitful, restless doze with a scream that reverberated through his bedroom, his eyes wild and frantic, his body damp and cold with sweat, his chest heaving as it struggled to draw breath. 

Each evening, after returning to his empty, desolate bedroom, Jaskier would pray to whichever of his favourite deities he thought were likely to listen to bring this dreadful, devastating war to an end.

And the cycle went on.

Until December 17, 1971.

******************************************************************************

"Jask?", Eskel tries but fails to keep the tremor out of his voice. And Jaskier can swear he hears Triss' sniffle next to Eskel.

"Esk? What's going on? Why are you calling? Vesemir Chacha called just three days back and let me know that everything's okay. You weren't supposed to call so soon. What's wrong? What's wrong, Esk?"

The questions tumble out of Jaskier's lips, almost tripping over one another, as he begins to hyperventilate, immediately sensing something off about Eskel's tone.

"Calm down, Jask."

"ESK! WHAT'S WRONG? WHAT'S WRONG?"

The owner of the little villa where Jaskier's been living as a paying guest hurries towards him along with his wife. The elderly couple look alarmed, and they each put a hand on Jaskier's back, trying to steady his uneven, erratic breathing and his rapidly worsening heartrate.

"Jaskier, I ... Geralt ..."

"WHAT? WHAT OF GERALT? WHAT ABOUT HIM? ESK? ESK? PLEASE! PLEASE!"

Jaskier registers Triss snatching the phone out of Eskel's hand, and he hears his darling older brother breaking down in the background.

"Jask?"

"Bhabhi? Bhabhi? Please ... please ... what's going on? Bhabhi, please ..."

"Geralt needs you. Come home."

**********************************************************

It's a miracle the airline personnel at the airport are able to understand Jaskier's incoherent mumblings. Are able to issue him a boarding pass (helping him skip several people who have been standing in the queue in front of him) and guide him like he is an invalid to his boarding gate. 

Jaskier sits at one corner, his eyes occasionally darting to the gold engagement ring on his left hand, dwelling for a moment on the words "My sun" etched on its surface. Multiple times, he breaks down in quiet sobs. Multiple times, waiting co-passengers throw him worried looks. Multiple times, members of the airlines' ground crew come over to check on him and check his abnormally fast pulse.

When the announcement for pre-boarding blares out the loudspeakers in the waiting area, a couple of kindly air-hostesses come to him, coax him into a wheelchair, and roll him towards the exit.

**********************************************************************

Ma, Triss Bhabhi, Essie and Shani come to receive Jaskier at the airport, knowing full well that none of the men in the family is emotionally mature and capable enough to be able to handle the wreck that Jaskier is sure to be.

Jaskier, his eyes vacant and unseeing, lurches forward into the waiting arms of the four most beloved, most important women in his life. They catch him, and they hug him, and they whisk him off to the hospital in a waiting taxi.

****************************************************************************

"Can I see him?"

Jaskier's voice comes out hoarse yet small, as he timidly looks up at the extremely stern and austere-looking lady doctor who stands surrounded by the distraught family.

"Yes. It's been a week since the surgery. He is doing fine. It won't be a problem."

"What about his ... other injuries?", Lambert asks, his voice even more hoarse from crying.

Jaskier turns wide, panicked eyes at Lambert -- the family has told Jaskier nearly nothing about the nature of Geralt's injuries -- and Shani nudges Lambert in the ribs with her elbow, scowling at him.

"Right. Sorry", Lambert mumbles an apology to Jaskier.

The doctor offers Lambert a not-unkind smile, then turns her attention to Jaskier, who visibly shrinks under her scrutiny.

"So, you're his husband?"

"H-his ... his betrothed."

"Fair enough. Come with me."

***********************************************************

When they reach the door to one of the rooms in the bustling emergency ward of the hospital, the lady pauses for a moment, and turns around to face Jaskier, her back to the deep-blue heavy drapes that hide the occupant of the room from Jaskier's view.

"Please keep in mind that two of his ribs are cracked and still very much in the process of mending themselves. You are not to jostle him. You are also not to aggravate his other injuries - he has several lacerations and gashes all over his body. And remember that he is not to speak overly long or in an overly excited manner - I don't want him to exacerbate his condition. He needs all the rest he can get. And lots of love and care. Am I clear, Dr. Pankratz?"

"Y-yes, Ma'am!"

"And Dr. Pankratz?"

"Y-yes, Dr. Mehra?"

"Your husband is a very, very brave man. After you see him, remember that he sacrificed what he sacrificed for our nation. For _your_ nation. He deserves all the love you can pamper him with. Understood?"

"Yes Ma'am! Yes!"

***********************************************************************

The first thing that Jaskier notices is how unlike himself Geralt looks.

His entire face is swathed in bandages, and still swollen from all the bruises it has been battered with. Several places in his arms are also covered in slightly blood-soaked bandages, while layer upon layer of broad off-white strips of crepe bandages are tightly wound around his torso, helping to keep the cracked ribs in place and hastening their healing. A solitary white bandage is wrapped around his forehead, though the doctor has already assuaged Jaskier's fears regarding a possible head trauma. 

Geralt is lying with the upper part of his torso slightly elevated by pillows propped underneath his head and neck. And he is covered in a heavy blanket from waist down.

Jaskier tiptoes to the chair next to the bedside and sits down.

He thinks he will let Geralt sleep, but the keening sound of the sobs that involuntarily push up his chest and break free of his throat wakes Geralt up anyway.

"Jasky?", Geralt says in a hoarse, scratchy-throated whisper after a few long (and terrifying, for Jaskier) seconds of blearily gazing into Jaskier's eyes with a confused haze in his own amber-gold orbs. He has clear difficulty speaking, thanks to both the sedative working through his system and the partially-healed, still-raw gashes on either side of his lips.

Jaskier just sobs harder.

"Honey?", the baritone becomes softer, and Geralt tries his best to smile, one hand extending towards Jaskier, who promptly clasps it in his own, "What's the matter, my sun?"

"Boo...", and Jaskier's voice cracks, and he doubles over as sobs wrack through his slight, trembling frame.

"I am alright, boo. I am alright. Alive and well. Don't you fret, dear heart."

Jaskier presses his face into the pillow right next to Geralt's bandaged head, not daring to touch him lest he inadvertently exacerbate the wounds his beloved betrothed is riddled with. His tears soon soak through the pillow, and dampen Geralt's milk-white tresses fanning out around his head. 

"I'm never again letting you go back to the borderlands. Never again. Never ever ever", Jaskier chants like a mantra, "I'm keeping you right here, with me, by my side, forever. Never again am I going to let you go. Never."

"I never _can_ go back to the army again, Jaskier. "

It is the utter desolation, the bitter, anguished despair in Geralt's voice that makes Jaskier yank his head up to look at him.

Wordlessly, Geralt gestures to him to lift up the blanket.

With hands that shake far too much, the doctor peels off the blanket ...

_There's nothing left of Geralt from his knees down. Nothing at all._

Jaskier chokes on his own sobs as he crumples to the floor like a marionette whose strings have been snipped, his knees colliding hard with the cement surface. His arms come to rest on Geralt's thighs, and his face buries itself into the sheets right where Geralt's sturdy, exercise-strengthened shins were supposed to be. Where now, there is only emptiness.

The strangled sobs rip through him, taking all his energy with them. Tears drench the sheets and the fabric covering Geralt's thighs. Even when he feels Geralt's bangaged palm coming to rest atop his head, Geralt's scarred fingers threading through his hair, he cannot make himself stop. Cannot make himself look up.

But in the end, it is Geralt's words that make the doctor look up.

"Jasky? Honey? Listen, Jasky, I ... I cannot ... I cannot marry you, dear heart. Not like this. Not ... not when I don't even know if I ever again can ... n-not when I am going to be a useless, dysfunctional mess for the rest of my life, relying hopelessly on others to get the simplest of my daily chores done."

Jaskier lifts his head, and his eyes lock with Geralt's.

"What did you say?", comes the whispered question.

If Geralt did not know better, he would have thought that the young doctor's voice simmered with barely suppressed menace.

"I cannot marry you, Jasky, my love. I already spoke to Baba and Sunil Chacha and Indu Chachi... explained to them why I have to call off the engagement. I want you to be happy, and you deserve a better future than what I can offer you. You deserve someone who is whole and strong and capable ... you shouldn't have to spend your life with a crippled, incapacitated ..."

Geralt's voice trails off.

_Because Jaskier's eyes begin blazing. Just like the sun._

*************************************

Three years later.

It still proves a downright struggle for Geralt to don his clothes. He can do it without help, but this time, he really does not want to risk rumpling and creasing the immaculately pleated and ironed sherwani nor the velvety-soft silk churidar Indu Chachi has so lovingly gotten tailored for him. So he asks Lambert to help out.

"It's impeccable - this sherwani. Just the right colour for you", Lambert teases, a rare smile of true joy and gratefulness lighting up his usually grumpy, grouchy features, "Chachi just knows you so incredibly well."

"Chachi's amazing!", Geralt acquiesces while wriggling into the churidar (a considerably more challenging task than cladding the upper part of his torso)

"Uh-uh Geralt, you better snap out of the habit of calling her Chachi, brother mine. Because that just won't do", Lambert tuts, and Geralt blushes.

"Sorry. Mamma ... Mamma's amazing!", Geralt rectifies himself.

"That's right. It won't do to call your soon-to-be mother-in-law "Chachi" due to a careless slip of your tongue", Lambert says with a mischievous twinkle of his eyes, before kneeling down to smooth the hems of the churidar.

Triss bustles into the room. "Bhaiya, are you done? Because I need to do his face and hair. Now!"

"Good god!", Lambert rolls his eyes while straightening to his feet, making Geralt snigger, "Breathe, sister! Here ... he's all yours."

Triss replaces Lambert. Geralt rolls the wheelchair forward until he is sitting in front of the mirror affixed to the almirah door. She busies herself with brushing his hair until every single strand shimmers like spun silver under the subdued light of the room. A beautiful, glossy ribbon of midnight-blue hue is fished out of her supplies, and gathering up several meticulously combed tresses at the back of his head, she ties them off with the ribbon in an elegant, flowing ponytail that hangs off his crown.

"Is everything I am wearing today some shade of blue? Or brown?", Geralt chuckles.

"Indeed. As it should be. Have you _seen_ how blue his eyes are? And what a lovely chocolate-brown his hair is?"

Geralt blushes once more. 

"And if it's any consolation to you, my darling bridegroom, then your beloved husband-to-be is going to be draped from head to toe in _your_ colours."

The blush deepens to beetroot-red.

Triss pulls a stool and flops down in front of him, and begins sponging his face clean.

"Be still now. It won't do if you squirm, Geralt! I need to apply the rouge nice and proper on your cheeks."

Geralt obeys her. Once done with tinting his cheeks with a subtle hint of soft peach-pink, she moves on to line his eyes with kohl, making those amber-gold irises appear even more pronounced, even more captivating. She then proceeds to adorn his forehead with delicate patterns drawn in sandalwood-paste.

"Geralt?"

"Mmm, Bhabhi?"

"You never did tell us how he persuaded you in the end. What tipped the scales? How did he drill some sense into your dense, wool-headed, pig-stubborn brain?"

Geralt's eyes dip down, and his expression becomes sombre, and Triss does not miss how he winces as if in pain. She sets aside her make-up supplies and puts her arms around him. He rests his head lightly on her shoulder, then slowly, he speaks.

"In the end, it really was not that difficult. He was ... he was so good at chipping away at the walls of self-loathing, of self-denigration I built around my heart. And all of you helped. Everyone was so persistent. Everyone showered me with so much love, such endless adoration ... when all I could think of was what a pathetic, maimed cripple I had been reduced to."

Triss squeezes his shoulders tighter, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Geralt sniffles softly, and hugs her back equally fiercely.

"And then ... that day ... when I finally snapped, and ... and yelled at him ... yelled at my poor, beloved Jaskier ... he ... he began to cry, but ... but he looked me straight in the eye, and said, very firmly, "Geralt, I am either going to live this life by your side, in your arms, in your bed, as your husband, or I am not going to live at all." And ... and Bhabhi, I knew he meant it. Meant every word of it."

"Of course he did", Triss agrees quietly.

"He has always meant every word of every single promise he has made me. He ... he does belong with me. To me. And I to him. I cannot deny it anymore", and his voice cracks on the last sentence.

"And you should not have to, my baby brother. You are every bit as worthy as you were before the war so cruelly robbed you of your ability to walk. It changes nothing, Geralt. Nothing for us - your entire family - and nothing for Jaskier. You are still the same adorable darling I met when I was in college and Eskel brought me home to meet Baba. You deserve all the love in the world, sweetheart. And you are going to get it, too."

****************************************************************

At the wedding mandap, when the priest asks the two of them to stand and begin the seven rounds or pheras around the sacred fire lit at the centre of the mandap (each completed phera meant to symbolize their humble prayers to the deities to make the commencement of their wedded life even more auspicious), Jaskier goes to stand wordlessly behind Geralt's wheelchair.

It's something he has already intimated to Geralt he intends to do. He has lots of practice pushing the wheelchair forward - after all, every single weekday, he insists (despite Geralt's weak protests) on dropping Geralt off at the nearby high-school, where the older man teaches physics and mathematics to students in the eleventh and twelfth grades, before boarding a train to his hospital. He does not think he will ever become comfortable with the idea of letting Geralt brave the streets of Mumbai, teeming with recklessly driven buses and cars and motorcycles, all by himself.

Jaskier can tell Geralt is holding his breath - the aged, venerable priest has ordered them both to stand, and the disabled war veteran is fixated on the word "stand" - so he places his palms firmly on Geralt's shoulders.

"Breathe, boo."

And the tension oozes out of Geralt's frame, and the breath he has been holding leaves his lips in a whoosh, and he nearly slumps in the wheelchair. 

They complete the pheras to deafening cheers and applauses from friends and family members while being showered with fistfuls of marigold petals. And then, it is time to exchange the wedding garlands made of densely woven vibrant white tuberoses and vivid crimson roses.

_Jaskier kneels in front of Geralt and obediently bows his head, and a rather teary-eyed Geralt slips the garland in his hands around Jaskier's neck. A heartbeat later, the garland waiting in Jaskier's hands is delicately deposited around Geralt's shoulders._

The crowd whoops and cheers, Vesemir and Sunil pull each other in for happy hugs, Indu and Triss surreptitiously wipe away at traitorous tears, Essie and Eskel and Shani and Lambert and a bunch of rowdy, devilishly grinning cousins snigger and guffaw and crack perfectly audible bawdy jokes at the finally-married couple, and the smiling priest scoots forward and places Jaskier's hands in Geralt's upturned palms.

"That's it, children. United for life, never to be parted from each other again."

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I mentioned "rakhi" and Raksha Bandhan. Details about this festival can be found [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raksha_Bandhan). Traditionally, it is sisters who tie rakhis around their brothers' or male cousins' wrists, but not only am I trying to imagine a much more gender-impartial, gender-bias-free India, but also in recent times, sisters honouring sisters and brothers honouring brothers through Raksha Bandhan are becoming increasingly common. This is my own way of encouraging these changes, because all siblings are priceless - and it's not just brothers whose long lives and happiness should be prayed for by sisters - it should involve all siblings celebrating each other irrespective of gender.
> 
> 2) [Here's](https://www.indianhealthyrecipes.com/potato-curry-aloo-sabzi/) a recipe for aloo sabzi (a kind of curry made from potatoes, though one could potentially add cauliflower florets, peas etc. to this): and if you want to know more about parathas, then [here's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paratha) an article for you.
> 
> 3) [Here's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Durga_Puja) an article on Durga Puja, the most important festival for Bengali Hindus. And [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holi) is an article on Holi.
> 
> 4) If you want to know more about Diwali, [here's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diwali) an article, and [here's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diya_\(lamp\)) an article on diyas that are oil or ghee based earthen lamps. If you want to know about rangolis, [here's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rangoli) an article, and if you want to know about gulal or abir, then [here'](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gulal) an article for you.
> 
> 5) To clarify the myriad honorifics I have used here (and which are very, very common in my society), well, here are some explanations. "Chacha" and "Chachi", while formally being used to address someone's uncle and aunt respectively, are also honorifics used to address someone who may be unrelated to us or may even be a stranger to us but is considerably older (around the same age as our parents) and deserves the respect due to an elder. "Bhaiya" is formally used to address an older brother, but also a male who is unrelated to us or is a stranger to us but is a few years older than us. "Bhabhi" is how we address the wife of an older brother or older cousin (or the wife of someone we respect and look up to as an older brother even if they are not our brother by blood). Finally, it is customary to address your parents-in-law the same way as your own parents, respecting them as you would your own parents - hence Geralt calling Jaskier's mother "Mamma" on the eve of their wedding.
> 
> 6) If you want to know more about what a sherwani looks like, [here's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sherwani) the Wikipedia article, but more importantly, [here](https://www.panashindia.com/orange-jacquard-silk-sherwani-with-dhoti-204mw18) is what I sort of imagine Jaskier wearing, though I don't like the shape and cutting of this one a lot, to be honest. If you want to know what a churidar looks like, please take a look [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Churidar). If you want to know what chikan embroidery looks like, [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chikan_\(embroidery\)) is the Wiki article, and here is a pictorial example of what it looks like. You can search for more of them on Google Images - they are absolutely stunning and very painstakingly done by hand.
> 
> 7) [Here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wedding_mandap) you can find more about what a wedding mandap is. If you want to know what a "phera" or "satphere" is, you can see the article here. Please also note that it is very common for brides and grooms in Hindu weddings to have their foreheads and temples and the sides of their cheeks lightly adorned with graceful patterns drawn in sandalwood-paste. The pries who presides over the wedding is responsible for guiding the couple through all the prayers involved (unless you are a Hindu atheist like myself - Hindu atheists and agnostics do not pray to any deities during their weddings), and this is done via a [yajna or yagya](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yajna). Also, blessings by elders are a very common thing during all these rituals, and it usually involves the sprinkling of husked rice and trefoil upon the heads of the ones seeking the blessings, along with the elders offering them small bites of sweets made at home.


End file.
